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Los Angeles is plagued with an incredible number of illegal limousines and taxis. But on weekends, San Francisco is moving in the same direction. In the last few months, I have seen more out-of-town cabs, limousines and airport shuttles working as taxis than I saw in the previous four years.

Many taxi firms in San Francisco also have limousines that poach and compete with their own drivers.

North Beach and the Mission District have become free-for-alls for any vehicle that wants to be a taxi while lease-paying drivers make less than 10 bucks an hour.

Our chief of police seems preoccupied with other matters more commensurate with his lofty salary.

I am coming up Market Street after midnight when a young man with a small handbag and blue jeans turns and flags me. I look him over and then stop. He walks over quickly and gets right in.

He says, "Near Fifth and Market; I am late for an appointment."

I say, "An appointment at this hour?"

He says, "Look, I have a knife. Let's do some business."

I am heading down Market to Ninth and then Eighth streets. I ask, "What does that mean? You're going to slice me instead of pay me?"

He says, "No, man. It means that I do not have any money but can give you this fine blade for fare instead."

I look at him and say, "I have enough knives. I need cash, okay?"

He says, "Hey, man, I don't have it, but the blade is good."

We are at Sixth now, moving toward Fifth. He says, "Brass handle with fine surgical steel." I pull over and stop. I say, "Don't pull it out of its case. Just hand it to me."

He does just that. He hands me the knife and opens the door at the same time. He says, "Here it is. See ya."

It is a small pocket knife. I open it. On the blade it says "stainless" and "China," but it looks as if it were made in India. In the age of e-mail, what I definitely do not need is another letter opener. I put the knife in my pocket and head up the street. He did say "fine surgical steel."

I'm flying up Pine Street in the rain at 3 a.m. when I see this group of young men and women singing on the sidewalk. Probably Irish. One of them turns to me and waves. I slow down stop in front of this pretty young woman. She catches me checking her out and just smiles.

They all pile in, the six of them, and we head up the road. They give me an address near 20th Avenue and Fulton Street. As he we head up Pine Street toward Van Ness Avenue, one of the men in the back says, "See that big beautiful building on the left? I am a carpenter, and I worked in the place. The interior is designed to make you calm and daffy. They get you to check in, so you never check out."

As we pass the building, he says, "Slow down a minute so we can check out the entrance. See the inside? It is designed to get you ready to purchase your tombstone."

They all laugh.

It's a retirement home. Another passenger says, "It's where you check in on your way to heaven."

I drive up Pine Street thinking about psychological programming.

On a morning when not much is happening, I am thinking about taking a quick shut-eye. I come down the Embarcadero to Pier 39, pullup to the curb and turn off my engine and lights. I sleep maybe half an hour when I hear a knock.

A young man speaks through a crack in the glass, "I need to go to Ellis and Jones."

I am not fully awake, but I push the button that unlocks the door. He gets in. I now check him out in the back seat. He looks strange.

I turn on the engine and start the meter when it hits me. One of the most putrid, foulest odors I have ever inhaled.

I exhale. I start to open every window in the cab. I turn on the heater.

I say, "Buddy, you smell. You smell so bad, you have to get out, now."

"Driver, I need to go to Ellis. I just took a bath, today."

"Tell it to someone else, get out of the taxi."

"I swear to God, I just took a bath today. Can you take me?"

"This cab is not going anywhere with you in it, ever."

But he just sits there. So with that, I cut the engine, take the key go out and open his door. He gets out.

I find a bottle of Isopropyl rubbing alcohol in the trunk and wipe down the whole back seat. It does the job. A few minutes later, I am gone.

You do what you have to do, sometimes. I am working more, but I am making less. It's early morning and cold. I am on Market Street near Seventh Street, an area where you have to pick and choose your fares. I see a couple flagging me.

They get in and give me two addresses. I drop off the man, and she wants to go to an address near Church and 24th Street. The Muni has taken up the tracks on the J-Church streetcar line in front of her address, so I pull over to the side to park.

She tells me her name, and we talk. An hour later, we are still talking. I ask her, "Have you ever seen that John Travolta movie, 'Civil Action'?"

She says 'John Travolta, we went to the same high school. I still have a picture of him and me together at a party."

I say, "You know a star."

"I am from New Jersey. John's parents had a tire shop, it was Travolta's Tires. My dad used to buy his tires there, for years."

I get her phone number and drive off thinking, Travolta's Tire Shop, ha, ha.

That is a great story. She and I will get together, later. When I am not working .